


‘desire is no light thing.’

by notjustmom



Series: "You remember too much..." [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Canon Divergence, Established Sherlock Holmes/John Watson, M/M, Marriage Proposal, No Mary, Post return
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-09
Updated: 2018-01-09
Packaged: 2019-03-02 22:15:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13327461
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notjustmom/pseuds/notjustmom
Summary: Just a bit of mostly fluff with a dash of angst.





	‘desire is no light thing.’

It was one of those dreadful, ordinary days after the holidays, before all the decorations had come down, but everything was starting to go a bit 'off.' The cheer was beginning to go stale and the snow that was wanted on Christmas morning was now abused and cursed at by those foolish enough to drive in London traffic.

The flat was stuffy and too hot. For once the radiators were running full blast to John's delight; he could never be warm enough. Perhaps a fragment leftover from his time in Afghanistan, or perhaps he just liked the comfort warmth provided him. Sherlock watched him fall asleep over a book in his chair, a book he had started many times, but had only ever been able to get halfway through, some history of some regiment, from an ancient skirmish.

As Sherlock picked the book up from John's lap and tucked a throw around him, he considered the subject of war. Wars did not interest him, violence as an idea was something he abhorred; it was only the puzzles that violence left behind that kept his mind from getting stagnant, but he supposed he understood the desire to understand the what and why of it, why humanity seemed to want to destroy itself, either for political or economic gain, or boundary issues, religion, even, in rare cases. It was only recently that Sherlock was beginning to understand how people could kill in the name of something or someone they claimed to love. 

Ever since he had jumped, before, even before then, possibly, he had begun to realise that desire was no light thing. But as he gently kissed John's hair and whispered, "just need a bit of air. I love you." and heard a mumbled, "Mmmmhmmmloveyoutoo..." in response, he understood that love and desire were not interchangeable. Desire, was something he understood. To want John in the way that he did was something he recognized in many of the puzzles he had solved. To desire, to want something, or someone so badly that one was willing to do anything to have it, including taking another life or lives if necessary wasn't something he understood until he had met John. John had killed in his defense within twenty-four hours of meeting him. Yes, he had killed a serial poisoner, not a good or nice man, and a rotten cabbie, but he had still taken a life because he believed that Sherlock had been in danger. What did that mean, exactly? That John had already seen enough in him to want to claim him in some way? He pulled on his coat, tied his scarf around his neck and drew his gloves on, spared his sleeping friend, partner and lover, one more glance, then opened the door quietly, stepped through and closed the door behind him and dashed down the stairs and into the greying London afternoon.

Love was something else altogether. Love was what had made John forgive him the night he returned from the dead without warning. What that was, a feeling, a chemical reaction, instinct? Sherlock still couldn't define it. Whatever it was, John had simply scooped him into his arms, and carried him up to the flat he had never abandoned, cleaned and redressed the wounds that still hadn't healed properly, and laid down with him until he fell asleep. It had to be love that made that possible. Slowly, he had realised in the days after his return, each time John had nagged him to eat or sleep, or to simply stop, in the past were simply indicators of his love, even if John had never spoken the words aloud or fully admitted it, even to himself, those actions had been done in love.

 

You okay? - J

Fine, just taking a walk. - S

Pick up some dinner? - J

Fish and chips? - S

 

He could see John rolling his eyes, and shaking his head at Sherlock's obsession with fish and chips since his return, but he would simply text back:

 

And a pint of milk? - J

Anything else? - S

Almost of out of jam and bread - J

 

Sherlock smiled at the normality of it all.

 

Back soon. Love you. xox - S

 

He didn't even know why he started doing the hugs and kisses at the end of texts. Weeks ago, he had come home from a meeting with Lestrade or a chat with his brother and found John sitting in his chair, as if lost in thought. Sherlock had knelt in front of him and asked him what was wrong, John had simply shaken his head and shown him the text he had sent an hour earlier -

 

Back soon. Love you. xox - S

 

And it had so happened that he hadn't told John he loved him yet, until that text, but it was the silly little xox at the end that had meant the most to him for some reason. Perhaps it was the silliness itself, John had called it 'sweet.' neither of which he had ever really been before - before he left. He had learned how to be a bit lighter, he had come to understand that smiling and kisses on foreheads and thank yous and milk for tea and cuddles in the morning meant more than dramatic demonstrations of devotion, and yet, he found himself walking into a jewelry store and after a few moments, leaving with a velvet box that he slipped into his pocket. He stopped to get the requested milk, jam, bread and John's favourite ice cream before picking up dinner and heading back to Baker Street, just as the snow began to fall once more.

 

"Hey." 

John looked up from his book with a smile. "Hey. It's snowing again?"

"Hmm. Hungry?"

"Yeah. I am - must've fallen asleep for a bit."

Sherlock grinned at him, then put the shopping away, knowing it still pleasantly surprised him somehow that he would even consider doing something so normal. So domestic.

"Before we eat, I have something I want to ask you." He had tried to keep his voice level, but he knew he had failed when John dropped his book, got to his feet and made his way to the kitchen.

"Sure. Yeah."

"I've - it occured to me today, well, maybe not today, but since - since, I'm not even sure, honestly, that you love me, and I - well, I adore and cherish you, I hope I've made that abundantly clear in the time I've been home. And -" he slowly got to his knees and watched as John followed him down, as if he had lost all muscle control suddenly, but not in a bad way. Sherlock blinked at him, as he wasn't sure this was the way it should go, but then recovered in time to catch John before he hit the floor. "I - there are many reasons you should say no, I'm still what most would consider a flight risk -" John snorted at that. "And I have a bit of a history of - well, you know all about that - but the thing is, I really would like it if you would marry me." He pulled the box from his pocket and put it into John's trembling hand. 

"Yes." John was looking into his eyes, in a way he hadn't before, as if he was searching for something that would explain everything. He blinked then and shook his head. "Of course, yes, I'll marry you, Sherlock Holmes."

They sat there, on their knees for a long moment in silence, as if neither of them was sure what to do next. "You brought home milk, then?"

"And bread and jam, and that ice cream you like?"

"And the fish and chips?"

"Right. That too."

"Good. For some reason, I'm really hungry at the moment."

"Even for fish and chips."

John laughed and kissed him softly, then pulled back to look at him once more. "Especially for fish and chips."


End file.
